


a different kind of danger

by bloomsoftly



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Baby!Nat, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-04-16 17:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14170167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloomsoftly/pseuds/bloomsoftly
Summary: One year ago, Steve made a horrible mistake. And because the universe has never really liked him, that mistake comes back to haunt him with a vengeance—in the shape of his daughter's fourth-grade teacher.He just wished he wasn't enjoying his punishment so much.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Little_Plebe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Plebe/gifts).



> it's been a while, i know. this little story started out as a tiny 700 ficlet, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone. so here we are.
> 
> by the way, i've been trying to get in the habit of writing most of my stories before i start (or continue, as the case may be) publishing them on the site. but because my brain runs in a million different directions--and i'm branching out into writing for another fandom, as well--that means i'll be posting things here a lot less frequently. i do sometimes post snippets on tumblr when i feel like i need feedback, if you're interested. overall i'm much more accessible there. ❤️

He was late. He was late, there was a smear of mustard on the cuff of his sleeve, and Natasha’s hair was a mess. His little girl was as dignified as ever, proudly marching him down the hall, and he reminded himself that she didn’t care if her Papa had mustard on his sleeve. That his eyes were bruised and tired, that he’d almost torn his hair out when he’d realized that today was the _Meet the Teacher_ night. Nat had been going on about it for weeks, in her quiet little way. It wasn’t much, nothing more than a double, then triple, check to make sure he didn’t have plans on a random Wednesday night. But it was enough.   
  
Once upon a time, Natasha wouldn’t have let either Peggy or Steve know anything about her preferences. When they’d first adopted her, she’d barely said anything at all. It had taken months for them to figure out that she hated the color of her room; she’d refused to spend any time in it at all, until it was time for her to go to sleep. Peggy had been the one to finally figure it out—his genius, darling wife—that Nat refused to touch anything red, from candy to toy cars to clothing. Suddenly it all made sense, why she’d even refused to look at her reflection in the mirror.   
  
And when they’d painted her room ballerina pink, a year into her stay with them, she’d cracked her first smile. Not long afterward, Peggy had officially become Mama and Steve had become Papa; and he was as proud as if it was the first word she’d ever said, heart filled to bursting with it. When they’d lost Peggy—when Steve had lost his wife and Nat her newfound mother—he was worried that he’d lose his little girl too. She had retreated in her grief, sure that her Papa would leave her, too. It had been three years, and she’d lost that fear now, but she was still reserved and more than a little wary.  
  
Which was why Steve had to meet this year’s teacher. If Miss Lewis was the reason for the return of the sparkle in Nat’s eyes, the slight skip in her step as they walked down the colorful hallway, then Steve would fall at her feet and declare his undying devotion. With a sharp tug on his hand, Natasha pulled him from his thoughts. Even at nine years old, she was still so small. His hand dwarfed hers, for all that she was bodily pulling him along.   
  
“You have to be nice to Miss Lewis, Papa,” she ordered quietly, eyes darting around as if they were conducting top-secret business. One too many spy movies, he figured. That was Bucky’s fault—his best friend was a sucker for spy movies, and now Natasha had picked it up, too. A wry chuckle escaped him.   
  
“Of course I will, sweetheart. I’m always nice.”  
  
She leveled him with a flat look, drawing to an abrupt stop just before they reached her classroom door.  
  
“I’m serious, Daddy.” His heart seized—it wasn’t often that she called him that.  
  
Nodding around the painful lump in his throat, Steve promised, “I will, Natasha. I know how much you care about Miss Lewis.”  
  
She studied him for a long second, in that methodical, assessing way of hers, before nodding and reaching for the door. They stepped through, and it was like entering a completely different world. The whole room was a pleasant blur of color, and the artist in him appreciated the aesthetic. Cheerful, organized chaos. And then Natasha was leading him forward, cutting through the crowd of children and their parents with ease. “Papa,” she declared, raising her voice with authority, “this is Miss Lewis.”  
  
For a moment, he couldn’t speak.   
  
Blue eyes widened behind dark-rimmed glasses, which were slipping down her nose. Dark, wavy hair spilled haphazardly out of her chignon, and his fingers itched to draw her.   
  
His brain was already matching the paints in his studio, identifying the exact shades to use to capture the deep red of her lipstick. It was smoothed across a mouth that had fallen open in shock, and Steve finally found his words.  
  
“Hello, Darcy.”

 

* * *

 

Natasha didn't speak to him the entire way home.   
  
In all honesty, Steve would've been embarrassed to admit that he didn't notice his daughter’s frosty air for most of the car ride. His brain was caught up in memorizing the curve of Darcy’s cheek, the way her hair shimmered even under the harsh fluorescent lights of the classroom. The way she'd tucked her lower lip between her teeth, trying to hide her dismay at seeing him.   
  
Needless to say, Natasha was not pleased at the stilted meeting between her Papa and her favorite teacher, much less the way Miss Lewis had quickly found a reason to escape their company. The woman had avoided them for the rest of the disastrous evening, and Nat was practically shaking with fury. She barely waited for him to unbuckle her booster seat before she was off like a shot, sprinting away from him and up to the safety of her room. She kept her chin tucked and her face pointed away from him, but not stealthily enough to hide the glimmer of a tear coursing its way down her cheek.   
  
Raking a shaky hand over his face, Steve swallowed down a lump of guilt and shame and followed his daughter at a more sedate pace.   
  
For the first time in a long time, he felt like a failure of a father. Combined with the shock of coming face to face with a woman he'd never envisioned seeing again, and he was overwhelmed. But it wasn't time for him to fall apart.   
  
Right now, his sweet baby girl needed him.   
  
Willing his fingers to stop their light trembling, he rapped his knuckles against Natasha’s door. Silence fell heavily, and for a moment he thought she might refuse to speak to him altogether. He had no idea what he'd do if that was the case: she'd never shut him out completely. But after a moment of bated breath, his heart pounding in his throat, the door creaked open.  
  
Nat was already back in her bed by the time he shut the door behind him. She was engulfed in her ballerina pink blankets, nose in the air as if she hadn’t just raced across the room to climb into her bed at top speed. She reminded him of a disgruntled kitten, and he stifled a smile. All of his good humor fled when she looked up at him, confused anguish written all over her face.  
  
“Why, Papa?”  
  
With a heavy sigh, Steve scrubbed a hand over his face and went to sit next to his baby girl. He smoothed a hand over her blankets, trying to put his thoughts into terms appropriate for his little girl. She scooted over to give him more room, and he dropped a kiss against her forehead in thanks.  
  
“Why what, sweetheart?”  
  
His tiny girl growled a little, a kitten expressing her displeasure by showing off her perfect baby teeth.  
  
“Why doesn’t Miss Lewis like you, Papa?” At her words, Steve closed his eyes in pain. She was hurt, and he had to explain why her usually-sweet teacher couldn’t bring herself to so much as look at him. Any other time, he might try to ignore the question altogether—neither of them were ready for that conversation, not for many years—but her expression was so heartbroken and beseeching that he couldn’t bring himself to brush her off.  
  
“I… met… Miss Lewis. Once. Before she was your teacher.” At her scowl, he admitted softly, “I was—it was after your Mama—I was having a hard time,” he finally settled on, dropping his eyes to the dark pink stitching on her blanket. Natasha dropped her little hand over his, and he stumbled through the rest of his explanation. “Miss Lewis was very sweet, but I…wasn’t very nice to her.”   
  
There. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Not the whole truth, but there’s no way he’d share the full truth with his eight-year-old. That wasn’t happening.  
  
“But Papa,” she whispered, drawing his eyes back to her face. Her eyes were full of tears, and Steve’s heart broke all over again. “If you were mean to her, and she hates you…” He watched with a lump in his throat as she struggled to some kind of conclusion. “Then she’ll hate me too.”  
  
“No, no, no. Sweetheart, no,” he muttered, gathering her up into his arms. She didn’t resist, just draped limply across his chest. “I think she was just surprised. I’m sure Miss Lewis loves you as much as you love her. Okay? It’ll be fine.”  
  
Natasha said nothing, but he could feel the doubt lingering in the air between them.   
  
Without stopping to consider the consequences of his words, Steve promised, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll fix it. I’ll talk to Miss Lewis.”  
  
It wasn’t until later, after he’d tucked her in and watched her drift off into an exhausted slumber, that he’d realized what he’d done. He’d promised his little girl. And he never broke his promises to Natasha. Not ever.  
  
 _Fuck._

 

* * *

 

It took him three days to gather the courage to show up at Miss Lewis’ classroom slightly earlier than usual. He leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the hallway for over ten minutes, visitor’s badge stuck to his shirt and a hand raking through his hair. He dithered for so long, the classroom was almost empty by the time he gathered the courage to step inside. No doubt his hair was sticking up at all angles, too. Little Nat was never going to let him live it down.  
  
To be fair, though, she’d have to forgive him first. His little girl could hold a grudge like nobody’s business. And she showed absolutely no sign of unbending even the smallest bit about Miss Lewis. In fact, she was currently watching him approach her teacher with an expression of unholy glee, reveling in her father’s clear discomfort. Steve swore she got the vindictive streak from Peggy. Or Bucky, for that matter. Or Sam. Come to think of it, she’d had a lot of role models in that regard.  
  
All thoughts of grudges and awkwardness faded when he met the woman’s eyes. For a brief moment her gaze lit up with a bright welcome, lips turning up into an inviting curve. But as recognition flared and she realized who had come to see her, he could practically see the shutters sliding over her expression.  
  
When Darcy—Miss Lewis—said nothing at all but arched an elegant eyebrow (and since when did he start to find eyebrows attractive, he wondered), Steve gathered the courage to take a step forward.  
  
“Miss Lewis.” Thankfully, his voice didn’t crack like a pubescent teenager’s, but it was a close thing. She stared at him in stony silence, lips curled in a decidedly unfriendly manner, ready and waiting to rip him into shreds. He tried not to flinch, and failed.  
  
The corner of her mouth twitched. He took a step closer.   
  
“Darcy.”   
  
The line of her mouth flattened completely, and Steve raised a conciliatory hand. To an outsider, he probably looked like a rabbit approaching a lion, trying desperately not to get eaten.   
  
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s appropriate for me to call you. May I speak to you for a moment?”  
  
When she visibly wavered, he muttered a soft “Please,” and cut his eyes over to his daughter. Natasha wasn’t even pretending to be anything other than an avid spectator. He rolled his eyes at her blatant perusal, and Miss Lewis stifled a snort. They shared a single commiserating glance before her gaze shuttered once more.  
  
She let him sit in agonized anticipation for a moment longer. Darcy—Miss Lewis, damn it—still hadn’t said a word, but her eyes flicked from him to Natasha and back. The punishing silence was a harsh reminder that he’d never really known her at all. On the night they'd met, Steve had felt such an amazingly strong connection—too strong. He’d run, and now here they were.  
  
With one final glance at Natasha’s sweet face, she breathed out a tiny sigh and capitulated. “Alright, I can wait a minute or two. But no longer than that.”  
  
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Steve immediately turned to his daughter. “Nat, please go wait for me by the door. I’ll be right over.”  
  
For a moment it looked like his daughter might argue, but she quickly wilted under his glare. And if she stomped a little louder than usual on her way across the room, he wasn’t going to call her out on it. After all these years, Steve had learned when to pick his battles, and he had no intention of making things any more awkward than necessary.  
  
Once Natasha was a safe distance away, he turned back around. Darcy was staring at him expectantly—arms crossed across her chest and clearly not willing to give an inch to make it easier on him, not that he deserved any leniency—and he blew out a heavy breath to ease the strained silence between them. It didn't work.   
  
Raking his hand through his hair, again, Steve dove in. “Look,” he began, fixing his eyes somewhere beyond her left shoulder, all the bright colors of the wall behind her blurring together, “I'm so sorry. I really don't want to make things difficult for you in any shape, way, or form. I'm sure this isn't ideal for you—god knows it's not what I expected when I was preparing for my daughter’s Meet the Teacher night.”  
  
He met her gaze, taking a chance, and found it hard and flat. Her eyes met his defiantly, but there was no animation, no spark of welcome in her gaze. She was utterly unreadable, and this entire situation was excruciating, but he'd promised Natasha so he soldiered on.   
  
“I promise I'm not trying to harass you or stalk you or—” not a good way to phrase it, but he couldn't take it back and he just kept talking, trying to get through it so he could get back to Natasha, grab her hand and drive home, where he could get in the shower and drown in his own embarrassment and shame— “or whatever. I—I mean, it's just— look, I was a complete dick. A total asshole, and I know it. And I'm sorry, and I'm sure you never want to see me again. It's just—you're Nat’s favorite teacher.”  
  
An unbidden grin spread across his face as he thought of his daughter and her affection for her teacher. Miss Lewis’ expression didn't change, though, so he slid his gaze back over to stare blankly at the colorful wall past her shoulder. He just needed to get through this.   
  
“You're her favorite teacher. And she can tell something is wrong, that you don't like me. Which is fine, really. It's just that she finds it so hard to open up and I was hoping—”  
  
“Was I the other woman?”  
  
His eyes snapped back to hers. _“What?”_   
  
Cold fury slid across her face, which was deathly pale save for two splotches of color high on her cheekbones. Her eyes glittered like ice. She was gorgeous, really, but his brain had shut down at her question and he wasn't processing much of anything at all.   
  
“Did you _cheat_ on your _wife_ —on _Natasha’s mother_ —with me last year?” she hissed, gaze darting toward the little girl who was still lingering in the doorway and whose eyes were riveted on the confrontation. Darcy spoke low enough that Nat couldn't hear her, but each word sliced through him as sharp as a knife.   
  
“What? No. No!” he exclaimed, loud enough to draw his daughter’s sharp gaze to his face in concern. Raking his hand through his hair, Steve met Darcy’s eyes and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “No, I promise.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“She died. Peggy died. Three years ago. That's why— I wasn't ready for—” With a sigh, he gave up.   
  
Darcy’s expression softened slightly. Her shoulders dropped as she sighed, and a little bit of the defensive tension left her shoulders. “I am sorry for your loss, truly. But that doesn't justify—”  
  
“I know,” he said quickly, cutting her off before she could announce his sins into the innocent air of his daughter's classroom. “Honestly, I was a jackass. And it was unforgivable, I know that. I'm not asking for anything other than you treating Nat the same as you did before. She hasn't connected with anyone this well in… well, in a really long time. She absolutely adores you.”  
  
Steve lapsed into silence, trying not to fidget. He'd said his piece, true enough, but he was suddenly worried it wouldn't be enough. What if she held onto her grudge, unable to keep from transferring the sins of the father to his daughter? How could he face Natasha if that was the case?  
  
“Alright.”  
  
“What?”  
  
She huffed at his disbelieving expression. “Oh, come on. I still think you're an asshole, but I'm not. Your daughter is a really good kid—one of my brightest, in fact—and there's no way I'd hold your douchebag behavior over her. And I adore her, too. I mean, I still don't like you, but—”  
  
He snorted, and she shot him a _don't even_ look. “But I like your daughter. And I respect that you came to apologize—a year late, I might add—to make her happy. You seem like a good dad. So. Let's just—call it even and go our separate ways, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” he breathed, “and if it makes things easier, I can make sure to have ‘prior commitments’  for any school functions in the future.”  
  
She hesitated at that, clearly thinking it over. He could see the dilemma in her eyes—personal preference for his suggested compromise versus concern for one of her students.   
  
“No, that's okay. I get the feeling Natasha really looks forward to spending that time with you, based on what she's said in class. We can just suck it up and be adults about it. Right?”  
  
“Of course,” he agreed, trying to hide how impressed he was with her words. With her, in general.  
  
They stood staring at each other for another half-moment, tense and awkward, before Steve rocked back on his heels and waved a hand in his daughter’s general direction.   
  
“Well, I'm gonna—”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“Thanks for—”  
  
“It's no problem.”  
  
“Goodbye, Dar—Miss Lewis.”  
  
“Bye, Steve.”  
  
As he whispered a quick _“mission accomplished”_ to his daughter and accepted a discreet high five on the way to the car, Steve tried very hard not to dwell on the fact that Darcy had used his name, there at the end.   
  
Natasha was energetic and chattering the whole way home, practically glowing with happiness now that everything was right in her world once again. Meanwhile, Steve was most definitely not dwelling on the pretty features of his daughter's teacher. Not on her sharp tongue or her spine of steel. And certainly not on the shape her mouth made when she said his name.   
  
Certainly not.


	2. Two

“I still think you’re an idiot.”  
  
“So you’ve said, Bucky. Loudly. And often.”  
  
“Well if you actually listened to me, punk, I wouldn’t have to repeat myself, now would I?”   
  
Sighing, Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. _Breathe in—one, two, three—and out._ He loved his best friend, he really did, but there were some days where he was too much to handle on top of Steve’s responsibilities as a father. Suffering through Bucky’s merciless breakdowns of his romantic failings with Darcy— _again_ —while grocery shopping with his daughter and trying to catch all the sweets she managed to sneak into the basket— _again_ —while also dealing with the not-so-surreptitious glances to his left ring finger and the accidental brushes of feminine curves against his side as they moved down the aisle? It was all too much, and he was ready to go home. The aisles weren’t even that narrow, for goodness’ sake.  
  
“Buck, there’s nothing you’ve said that I don’t already know, so I don’t see how—excuse me, ma’am. No, you go ahead.” Steve gritted his teeth at Bucky’s cackle—tinny but clear over the phone—and moved away from the woman, who just so happened to absolutely need the can of tomato sauce directly next to the one he was reaching for.  
  
“They still won’t leave you alone, huh? It’s like kryptonite, you know. The single man with the adorable daughter. Little do they know our sweet baby Nat will tear them to pieces—verbally, of course—if they get too handsy. She’s already decided that your soulmate is none other than her 4th grade teacher, and she won’t take kindly to anyone who gets in the way of that.”   
  
“I know,” Steve said oppressively, sensing the beginning of another lecture.  
  
“And you blew it, so maybe you should go to a bar and find another girl who’ll put up with—”  
  
He’d had enough.  
  
“Damn it, Bucky, I can’t deal with this right now. We’ll talk later.” He hung up the phone without waiting for a response. As he slid it into his pocket, he looked up and down the aisle for his wayward daughter, avoiding the woman’s attempts to catch his eye.  
  
Natasha was at the opposite end, skipping back toward him as soon as he caught her eye. She had one hand hidden behind her back and was altogether too cheerful for a regular trip to the grocery store. He didn’t have the heart, or energy, to call her out on it, so he made sure his head was turned the other way as she reached the cart.  
  
“You know,” the woman finally said, going for the bold approach when he wouldn’t make eye contact, “that brand is full of sugar.” He stared at her for a moment in confusion before following her pointed finger to the can of tomato paste in their cart. It was the same brand they always used, and he bristled a little at her unsolicited advice.  
  
“This one is much better,” she concluded, holding a different can out to him with an inviting smile. It was a different brand, but had the exact same ingredients. Which Steve knew, because he was actually a responsible father who checked the nutritional value of the things he fed his daughter.  
  
At his continued silence—mostly because Steve was afraid something awful would spill out, and he refused to be rude to a woman no matter how forward or insulting she was—the woman’s confident smile wobbled.  
  
The stalemate was broken when Natasha slipped around the cart and tucked herself into his side, between the two adults. “Papa, I don’t like those,” she said, staring straight at the woman and clearly not talking about the tomatoes. Steve resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose yet again, torn between laughing and crying.  
  
In the end, he decided that discretion was the better part of valor. “Thanks for the suggestion,” he finally said, “but we like the one we’ve got.” Ducking his head to meet his daughter’s sly smile, he asked, “What’s next on our list, sweetheart?”  
  
“Lunch stuff!” She chirped, already tugging him away from the awkward encounter. Sometimes, he reflected, it was nice to have such a precocious daughter.  
  
Three unwelcome pieces of advice later, and Steve was ready to tear his hair out. He hadn’t been grocery shopping with Natasha in a while, usually leaving her in the care of Bucky or Pepper so that he could dash out and get what they needed as quickly as possible. He’d forgotten what an ordeal it could be, and was completely exhausted.  
  
The most recent flirt—a man, this time—hadn’t given up so easily. He’d gasped, horrified, at Steve’s yogurt selection. It was a travesty, apparently, to get normal yogurt when Greek was so much better. Or something. Eventually, Steve had given up on yogurt altogether, fleeing farther down the aisle toward the orange juice in a desperate bid to escape.  
  
“You know…” a feminine voice said, and he couldn’t help the way his shoulders defensively crept toward his ears. _Not again._ A familiar laugh, though, had him turning even before he’d registered who it was.  
  
 _Darcy._  
  
She was dressed casually for the grocery store, in leggings and an oversized sweater with her hair sloppily gathered into a ponytail. She looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen her—except for a different morning, almost exactly a year ago, his traitorous brain pointed out—and she was beautiful. She was also laughing at him, eyes mischievous and animated as she stepped closer and took a headphone out of her ear. It was a welcome change over the last time he’d seen her, so he huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes at her.  
  
“This is the part where you point out something awful about my choice of brands,” he teased, shaking the orange juice jug in her direction.  
  
As she shook her head, still chuckling at his plight, she leaned slightly against the refrigerator. She cast her eyes over the juice selection, then glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “It’s because of Natasha. Devoted dads with adorable little girls are practically kryptonite to thirsty… I was going to say women, but based on the guy who was just hitting on you, clearly it’s not restricted by gender. And if you appear to be single, all the better.”  
  
“That’s almost exactly what Bucky said,” he blurted out, desperate to keep the light atmosphere. He couldn't believe she was so at ease, but he wasn't likely to look a gift horse in the mouth. Which, of course, meant he completely ruined it. It wasn't until she paused, arrested, and there was an awkward moment that he remembered she knew who Bucky was.   
  
Darcy knew a lot about Steve's life, more than a stranger should, for all that they’d only spent a single night knowing each other. Falling into each other.  
  
“Well, it’s true,” she said after a long moment, clearing her throat a little as if that would ease the sudden tension. “And it’s not like you have the option of putting your headphones in and ignoring the whole world. I assume Natasha’s puttering around here somewhere?”  
  
“Yeah, she has these pink hair bands that she just has to have. Is that what you do? Put your headphones in, I mean.” he asked before he could catch himself, gesturing toward the headphones now draped around her neck.  
  
“Yeah,” she confessed easily with a rueful smile. “It doesn’t help with the really obnoxious ones, of course, but it keeps most of the riff raff at bay.”  
  
“The perils of the grocery store. You never know what's gonna pop out and get you,” he opined dramatically, drawing a laugh from her.  
  
“Utterly dangerous,” Darcy agreed, adopting a serious expression that was belied by a slight uptick at one corner of her mouth. “I was thinking of investing in a sword, actually. To protect myself from the grocery store barbarians.”  
  
“Or a shield, at the very least.” They both snorted, lost in the image of outfitting themselves as medieval knights to survive a trip to stock up on peanut butter.  
  
“Miss Lewis!” Natasha squealed, skidding around the corner ecstatically as she spotted her third-favorite adult. Darcy accepted her student’s hug easily, and Steve could’ve kissed her for not wincing at the insanely high pitch of his daughter’s voice.   
  
He could’ve kissed her for a lot of reasons, actually, if he wasn’t positive that it would be entirely unwelcome.  
  
But it would be, so instead he confined himself to an indulgent smile. And if it was directed at both of them, rather than solely toward his daughter, well. He didn’t have to tell anyone.  
  
“Come on, Nat, I’m sure Miss Lewis doesn’t want you latched on like a limpet while she’s doing her grocery shopping. And we’ve got plans to meet Pepper for lunch, so we need to get a move on anyway.”  
  
“Will Tony be there?” His daughter asked innocently.  
  
He narrowed his eyes at her in suspicion. “I’m sure he will.”    
  
For Darcy’s benefit, he elucidated, “The Starks are good friends of ours, even if Tony spends way too much time on his experiments. If Nat ever blows anything up in your class, it’s his fault. His wife is a much better influence on her.”  
  
Things were tense again, as the presence of  his daughter reminded them of the awkwardness of their situation. Still, Darcy gave him a tiny laugh and raised her eyebrow, shooting the girl an arched look.   
  
“Let’s try to keep the explosions in class to a minimum then, shall we?” she suggested before turning away to grab her own jug of orange juice.   
  
Because she was facing the other direction, Darcy missed the triumphant smile that slid across the girl’s face. Steve didn’t. _That little matchmaker._  
  
Before things could get even more awkward—or he put his foot in his mouth, which quite frankly he was amazed hadn’t happened yet—Steve put the orange juice in his cart and wrapped an arm around his daughter’s shoulders.   
  
“Alright, sweetheart, let’s get going. We still have a couple things to get before we check out, and at this rate we’re going to be late. And being late…”  
  
“… is the number one thing Miss Pepper hates!” Natasha finished in a sing-song voice.  
  
“Yes, exactly,” he agreed, laughing as he turned to say goodbye to Darcy. She was watching them with a slightly fond expression on her face, and Steve was just enough of a fool to hope that a little bit was reserved for him. “Goodbye, Miss Lewis. Sorry for taking up your valuable shopping time.”  
  
“Goodbye, Mr. Rogers,” she said with exaggerated seriousness, mocking him for his use of her last name. “And I believe it was I who accosted you, as a matter of fact.”  
  
“Bye, Miss Lewis!” Natasha chirped, sliding out from under her dad’s arm. Her teacher accepted the hug with ease, smiling down at her.  
  
“Bye, Natasha. See you next week. Be good for your dad, okay? No explosions,” she ordered with a wink.  
  
“Not this weekend,” his daughter bargained, grinning at the way the adults laughed.  
  
With a wave, they were off. Steve turned back once, at the end of the aisle, watching as Darcy slipped her headphones back in and headed in the opposite direction. She could have avoided him, he realized. The grocery store was certainly crowded enough. She could have kept her headphones in and avoided him like the plague. The headphones would've been a convenient excuse. But she hadn’t.  
  
On that happy thought, he and Natasha finished their shopping with ease, ignoring anymore fumbling attempts at flirting. In no time, he was buckling his daughter into the car and zipping away from grocery store hell. Not that it had been so bad, this time. Not when they ran into a woman with sparkling eyes and a playful grin and curves that went for days.  
  
 _I’m sorry. I pushed too far_ , Bucky texted him at lunch. It took a second for Steve to realize what his best friend meant; he was still wrapped up in the euphoria of his conversation with Darcy, with the way she’d teased him. Like they were friends.  
  
 _A fool_ , Steve lamented in the privacy of his own head. _That’s what I am. A damned fool._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments make the world go 'round.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is the chapter where a different kind of danger earns its "E" rating. It's not even close to being the most explicit thing I've ever written, and the smut is fairly short, actually, but i personally wouldn't read it at work.
> 
> maybe you have a better poker face than i do, but there's your warning.

_“Are you alright?”_  
  
Steve looked up from his disinterested, distracted study of the half-empty tumbler of bourbon cradled between his palms. In the last hour or so, he’d found that the play of colors—the way the amber liquid shifted and shone against the backdrop of the well-worn bar—was much more interesting than the act of actually drinking the alcohol itself. All the same, he was reluctant to engage with another human being; all he wanted to do was wallow and indulge in a satisfying sulk. He looked up anyway; his mom had raised him better than to blatantly ignore someone who was speaking to him, after all.  
  
She was a vision in the dull light of the bar, her silhouette thrown into sharp relief against the mundane boredom of everyone and everything else in the room. All dark hair and sleek curves, with full, pouting lips. He was utterly captivated, lost in the face of her beauty, and he swallowed so abruptly he bit down on his tongue. The pain was sobering, and he scrambled to find an appropriate, if belated, response to her polite concern.   
  
It had been years since he'd been interested in engaging a woman’s interest, though, and he came up empty.   
  
The woman let the silence drag on for another moment before cocking her head to one side. Her hair spilled over one shoulder, and he couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the shades of color that were revealed as it shifted under the dull light of the bar. The hour he’d spent admiring his drink seemed wasted, in comparison, and he clenched his fingers against the urge to rub a wayward curl between his fingertips.  
  
When she spoke, the soft husky edge to her voice shot straight to his groin, and Steve was mortified to experience his first public, inadvertent erection in years.   
  
“I'm sorry to have bothered you,” she said, the cadence slightly off on her words. Like she'd gathered some liquid courage before approaching his quiet little corner, or was embarrassed in the face of potential rejection. Her cheeks blushed pink, barely noticeable but endearing all the same. “You just looked so sad. You're too pretty to be sad.”  
  
“No,” he said, the word tripping over his swollen tongue and rolling out of his mouth without permission. The harshness of the word spilled between them, and he watched helplessly as she suppressed a flinch. Cursing his awkwardness, Steve hastened to add, “You're not bothering me. At all.”  
  
Those blue eyes examined his soul for a long second, boring past all his walls and defenses to lay him bare, and he had to bite his tongue all over again to resist confessing a myriad of sins. (He’d never told anyone about the time he'd spit gum into Rebecca’s boyfriend’s hair and let Bucky take the blame, for instance; not even at confession. And yet it all almost came spilling out of his mouth at that moment, begging to be absolved. Begging for her to absolve him.)  
  
When she shifted her weight, he realized he’d waited too long to speak. Again. Setting his tumbler of glass down against the aged wood of the bar with an audible thunk, he shifted on the barstool to better face her. Opening himself up for the first time in… a very long time.  
  
“Sorry,” he said, allowing his mouth to pull itself into a chagrined grin. “My head was in the clouds.”  
  
She hummed, eyes lit with mischief. “That’s funny,” she said, “because from where I was sitting it looked like you were having a total pity party, table for one.”  
  
Heat raced across his cheekbones, and Steve ducked his chin. For a moment, he wavered. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for this—flirting with the distinct possibility for more. Making up his mind, he reached for the discarded glass and finished off the bourbon in one large gulp. It burned his throat and simmered uneasily in his stomach, but he ignored it to meet the woman’s eye.  
  
“Then it’s a good thing you came along to save me from myself, isn’t it?” Gesturing to the barstool next to his, he asked, “May I buy you a drink?”  
  
“I would say yes for the manners alone,” she joked, sliding easily onto the offered seat. She mirrored his position, and their knees brushed against one another in the space between the stools. Electricity arced its way down Steve’s spine, and he shuddered to think of what Bucky would say, if he could see how his best friend was turned upside down and inside out at such a simple touch. “I’m Darcy, by the way.”  
  
 _Darcy_ , his heart whispered, and he could feel the truth of her name settling deep into his bones. That name was important, somehow, tugging at the back of his brain. There was something he should remember about that name.  
  
“Steve,” he replied, and wondered for a brief moment if he should shake her hand. Instead, he waved to get the bartender’s attention. “What would you like to drink?”  
  
“Surprise me.” Her smile lit up her whole face, knowing and beautiful and full of life, and Steve’s heart thudded uncomfortably in his chest. It almost hurt to look at her, the pull was so strong.  
  
“Something tells me that you’re the one who’ll be doing all the surprising,” he murmured to himself, not catching the grin that teased the edges of her mouth at his words.  
  
Somewhere between signaling the bartender and the start of their conversation, he lost track of time. One drink led to two, and it wasn't long before she was leaning against him as they laughed, tipsy and happy and basking in the strange fierceness of their instant connection.   
  
“He didn't!” Darcy exclaimed, staring at him with wide, slightly-unfocused eyes.   
  
“He did,” Steve confirmed. “Bucky knew I couldn't handle rollercoasters, so of course he suggested we go to Coney Island. I threw up all over the place, and Rebecca never tagged along with us ever again.”  
  
She snorted—the sound, silly as it was, twisted something in his chest until he could hardly breathe—then frowned. “Wait, he humiliated you so that his sister would leave the two of you alone? He doesn't sound like a very good friend.”  
  
“Nah, it wasn't like that.” With a soft smile at her genuine concern, he reached over to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear. His knuckles traced the skin along her temple and down her jaw, almost with a mind of their own, before falling away. “See, Rebecca had a crush on me in the most awkward, pre-teen to teenager kind of way. For years, it seemed like we couldn't go anywhere without her following along. And Buck knew it made me feel really uncomfortable, so—” he shrugged and chuckled. “It was worth it.”  
  
She laughed with him, shaking her head. “Well, that's one way to do it, I guess.” Mischief twinkled in her eyes when she added, “So if you suggest we head out to Coney Island after this, I'll know you're just trying to get rid of me.”   
  
His gaze fell to her lips. Without letting himself think too hard, he wet his own and murmured, “You don't have to worry about that, not at all.” It took an immense effort to pull his attention back to her eyes, but he caught the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed roughly in response.   
  
There was something gleaming in her eyes, something molten and heavy that sent a pleasurable ache through his entire body. It was all he could do to stifle a groan as she bit her lip and watched him with those deep blue eyes. Then she was leaning into his personal space, her hair brushing his shoulders as she set her painted lips to his ear. He was lost in the scent of her, intoxicating and sweet, and could hardly focus on her words.   
  
“What do you say we get out of here?” she asked, squeezing his thigh to keep her balance. A low groan escaped him at the touch, and she squeezed again as she pulled back.   
  
He rolled his eyes at her breathy chuckle, knowing that his face was surely beet red and his eyes glazed over with desire. When he caught her gaze, though, he was surprised to see a hint of vulnerability. Surprised, and touched.   
  
In response, he cupped careful fingers along the line of her jaw, sliding them across smooth skin until he reached a wayward lock of hair. He rubbed it between his fingertips, admiring the silkiness of it as he gathered himself.   
  
“Yes,” he murmured, trying not to make her wait too long even as he ignored the part of him that screamed and railed with guilt. _You have a daughter and a dead wife and—_ “Yes, I'd like that.”  
  
“Well, alright then,” she mimicked in an overly serious tone. Then she grinned, and all his self-doubts fled in the face of it. “Yours or mine?”  
  
And suddenly he could think only think of Natasha’s toys strewn about in every room of the house, and _dear god, that was the bed he used to share with Peggy._   
  
“How ‘bout mine?” She suggested, seemingly oblivious to his inner turmoil. “It's not far.”  
  
He shoved his demons aside for the last time and took her hand. “Yeah—Yeah, that sounds fine. I'm all settled here, if you're ready?”  
  
The cab to her apartment was a blur.   
  
All he could remember was the way her hair glinted beneath the streetlights as they passed, shining blue and gold and red in turn against the window of the cab. The burning heat of her eyes as he lost himself in her gaze, and the fullness of her lip as she caught it between her teeth. The gentle touch of her fingers on the back of his hand as he willed it not to shake.   
  
The first sweet, surprisingly gentle kiss they shared in the backseat of the cab, little more than a fleeting press of mouths before the driver jerked to a stop and ordered them out. His hands shaking for real this time as he pulled too many bills out of his wallet, and the searing heat of her fingers wrapped around his wrist as she led him up the stairs.   
  
And then they were at the door of her apartment, and it was like the world was thrown into fast forward. The innocent kiss from before was nothing but a faint memory as they came together in a flurry of frantic, needy kisses. Her tongue tangled with his, tasting of whiskey and coke and pure desire.   
  
He wouldn't be surprised if someone made a noise complaint, with all the furniture they knocked into and over on their way to her bedroom. Honestly, it would've been much easier if they'd separated for the half-minute journey, but it seemed like much too long to be apart. He never wanted to be apart from her.   
  
Not with the way she slid her tongue and her lips against his, and the way she sifted her fingers through his hair and _pulled_ , and the sound she made against his mouth as she ground against him just like _that_ —  
  
With a solid thud, they hit the wall. He wasn't thinking about anything anymore except hiking her leg up around his hip and sliding his fingers along the silky skin of her thighs and toying with the edge of her panties, sliding beneath to—  
  
“Wait,” she said, and he froze. “No, no—not that kind of wait—” and he had just enough presence of mind to find her babbling completely endearing— “just, the bedroom’s right there. _That_ kind of wait.”  
  
And then time sped up again as they tripped over themselves to make it to the bed, undressing each other sloppily as they went. Darcy shoved him over, laughing as he let out a faint _“oof”_ when his back hit the mattress. Her humor was drowned out by the sound of his groan as she unceremoniously rolled a condom down the length of his cock, squeezing gently when she reached the base.   
  
When she swung one leg over to straddle him, it was his turn to let out a stuttered, “Wait.”  
  
She paused, looking down at him—chest heaving, hair cascading all around her in a wild, tousled halo—and he had to force himself to hold onto his train of thought. “Let me—I mean, I can—”  
  
She smiled, realizing what he was offering. It was real and gentle, and Steve’s heart thudded heavily against his ribcage.   
  
“There’s no need,” she said, still smiling at him in that soft way, “I've been soaking wet ever since we left the bar. But I'll hold you to that for the next round.”  
  
And while he was still choking on his own tongue at the very thought of it, she reached between them to guide him inside her as she slid down in one smooth movement.   
  
The world was reduced to the sight and smell and feel of her, and Steve was overcome. He couldn't say how long she rocked over him, guided by the strength of his hands on her hips and the way he moaned her name. It could have been hours or minutes—though a faint part of him was cognizant of the hope that it was a bit longer than that, at least—before he recognized the look of faint frustration furrowed between her brows.   
  
He reached between their bodies to help her along, falling into long-memorized motions to bring her over the edge. And he watched as she broke, arching over him with a soundless cry, hips stuttering and legs shaking against his hips.   
  
Steve watched her fall apart even as he raced toward his own climax, fighting the urge to close his eyes, determined to memorize every look on her face and every sound she made. One, two, three—  
  
And he fell into bliss.   
  
  
  
Morning brought warm sunshine and empty sheets. Squinting into the light darting between half-closed blinds, Steve stretched one arm out to the side. Disappointment sat heavily upon his chest; the other side of the bed was cold, like she'd been gone a while.   
  
But from the other room, there was a sharp clattering noise and a softly-uttered, _“Shit!”_  
  
Unable to smother a sigh of relief, Steve grinned and shook his head. With one last glance to the soft morning light pouring through the window, he rolled out of bed. No point in wasting time alone.   
  
Her hair was wet as she danced in front of the stove, wearing the pajamas they hadn't bothered with the night before. He felt vastly overdressed in comparison, in his dark jeans and undershirt.   
  
She turned, then, catching him off-guard with the way her eyes lit up in welcome. Her mouth quirked up at one corner as she cocked her fist on one hip.   
  
“Well, good morning, sleepy head. I hope you like pancakes.”  
  
“Is there any sane person on this planet who doesn't?” he joked, struck still by the sight of her. She was glorious, in a messy, touchable sort of way.   
  
“Good answer,” she said, pointing the spatula at him and splattering batter all along the counter, “because that would be a total deal-breaker.”  
  
“We can't have that,” he murmured, more seriously than he'd intended. They stared at each other silently for a long moment, and he gathered the courage to continue, “Seriously, I mean—it's alright if it was just a one-time thing for you, but I'd like…”  
  
Darcy smiled at him, wide and almost certainly fond.   
  
She opened her mouth.  
  
  
  
  
She opened her mouth, but it was his daughter’s voice that came out. “Dad!”  
  
“Dad!” Banging on his bedroom door brought Steve fully awake, and he was sitting upright in bed before he'd even fully registered his surroundings.   
  
“Just—” he croaked, having to pause and clear his throat before he could start again. “Just a minute, sweetheart.”  
  
“Daaaaad!” Nat whined, kicking lightly at his door this time. “It's pancake day! Hurry up!”  
  
“Yeah, Yeah,” he huffed, thinking of the pancakes in his dream. His little girl was always on his mind, it seemed, even while he was unconscious. “Just give me a minute, alright, Nat? I'll be down as soon as I get dressed.”  
  
He waited until he heard her grumpy stomps down the stairs to drop his head into his hands and groan. Steve’s subconscious was clearly taunting him—torturing him with all the regrets he tried to ignore when he was awake.   
  
If only he’d stayed that night, curling into Darcy’s warmth and her welcome instead of running like a coward. If he’d stayed for breakfast and told her of his concerns. If he’d communicated, and taken that chance instead of stealing away into the night like a thief.   
  
Instead, he’d been overcome with grief and misplaced shame, and missed out on what his gut was telling him could have been something truly magical. Something like what he’d felt for Peggy, a lifetime ago.  
  
And even after the fact, after he’d run, he could have found her to explain. To apologize, and ask for another chance.  
  
He’d missed out on that opportunity, too, and he had no one to blame but himself. Now, because the universe hated and loved him in equal measure, she was Nat’s favorite teacher. There was no ignoring his mistakes anymore, but there wasn’t anything he could do about any of it.   
  
Well, that wasn’t strictly true. He could get downstairs and make his precious little girl some pancakes.   
  
Steve squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. Yeah, he could do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live! 
> 
> This chapter has been sitting on my soul for--checks date last updated--good lord, 8 months?? Well, it has. And I sat down last night and busted it out, then finished it off this morning and even threw in some mild editing. 
> 
> I apologize if there are any blatant mistakes, but I honestly just couldn't look at it anymore.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wasn't lying when i said that chapter three gave me trouble for 8 months. i already had this chapter mostly written, but couldn't move forward until i'd finished the previous one. i'm doing my best to just get this completed and out into the world, so enjoy another update!
> 
> the last part has to be written in its entirety, but we're only looking at maybe two more major chapters/scenes. 
> 
> so yay! enjoy some lovely baby!nat daddy!steve bonding time. over bullies, because it's steve.

The next time they ran into each other was at Nat’s favorite pizza parlor. It was the first time he'd seen her since the dream, as he'd taken to calling it, and Steve was grateful that Darcy’s attention was firmly on Natasha.  
  
And he was grateful for the red neon lighting at the window, for masking the sudden flush in his cheeks. By the time he'd gotten his heartbeat under control, his little girl was already inviting her to sit down and stay. Sam eyed the scene with avid interest  
  
“Please, Miss Lewis? Papa always says that Uncle Bucky orders enough food to feed a whole country, and that sharing is caring.”  
  
It was Darcy’s turn to flush; Nat’s wheedling and pleading was masterful, and she wasn't afraid to wield it as a deadly weapon. The woman was clearly uncomfortable, though, so Steve interceded on her behalf.  
  
“Nat, come on. Put those puppy eyes away—that's not fair.” When she shot him a glare that could've cut glass, all of the adults chuckled. “I'm sure Miss Lewis already has plans. Let's let her be, alright?”  
  
His daughter pouted up a storm, missing the brief flash of gratitude that swept across her teacher’s face. By the time she looked up, it was gone. In that moment, Steve was overcome with his own wave of gratitude, for the fact that Darcy never made his girl feel unwanted.  
  
“I'm sorry, Natasha,” she said with an honest look of regret, ruffling the little girl’s hair to soften the blow. “But I do have plans. Maybe next time?”  
  
As she spoke, she looked anywhere but at Steve. Politeness, then, not encouragement. He hasn't expected anything else, and it was easy to say, “Sure. Anytime. Nat, you’re gonna need to let Miss Lewis go.”  
  
Once her small red-headed octopus had detached itself from her waist, Darcy shot them all a quick smile and headed for the to-go counter.  
  
Sam, who hadn't said a word through the whole thing, winked at the little girl. “Hey, glitterbug, I think Uncle Bucky needs some help over there.” Sure enough, Bucky was pretending to wobble the empty cups for their drinks, and Nat shot out of her chair to help.  
  
As soon as she was out of earshot, Sam turned to Steve with a mocking grin. “So that's her, huh?”  
  
“Yeah. That's her.” Steve was careful not to let his eyes track her across the room, or to snap defensively at his friend. Sam’s stare always saw too much, and it was unnerving. He didn't want that, not about Darcy.  
  
“She's certainly a looker, man.”  
  
When Steve didn't respond, he changed tack. With a whistle, Sam reclined against the back of his seat. “Damn, Steve. You got it bad. We need to get you out to a bar.”  
  
“No, thanks.”  
  
“Oh, come on. She's pretty, but it's clear she's not interested. She was so uncomfortable, she could hardly wait to get away from you.”  
  
With every word, Steve's shoulders crept toward his ears. He knew all that, knew that Sam was laying into him on purpose, stripping him bare. He didn't like it.  
  
“I know. I'm not blind, Sam.”  
  
“So I'll set you up on a blind date, then. If you don't want to hit up a bar.”  
  
“I said no. I've already gone through all this with you, Sam. And Bucky, and Tony. Hell, even Pepper’s tried to set me up with someone. I'm not interested,” he repeated, teeth gritted against the frustration that welled in his gut.  
  
“I don't understand, Steve. You're just waiting around for her, but she's clearly not into you. What the hell are you doing?”  
  
“I'm not waiting on her.” At his friend’s scoff, he retorted, “I'm not! I know she's not interested, and I'm not trying to change her mind, okay? My feelings aren't dependent on hers, Sam. I've been gifted with two incredible women in my life. I lost one, and I was stupid enough to let the other one go. I'm still crazy about her, and I fall deeper every time I see her. And you can laugh at me for that, but it's fucking true.”  
  
Sam wasn't laughing, though. He just held Steve’s gaze steadily. But once the words started, they wouldn't stop. Steve had held it in for too long, buried under all the well-meaning attempts to set him up on dates or jokes about drunken one-night-stands. He dropped his eyes to the tabletop, picking at the imperfections in the plastic as he ranted.  
  
“And she's not interested, and that's okay. But I'm not gonna force myself to date other people just because she doesn't want me. The woman I want doesn't want me, and I'd rather be single than date anyone else. I've got Natasha, man. I'm not unhappy, or lonely, or wasting away or whatever is you think is happening. And I'm not stalking Darcy, or trying to make her want me. I'm fine. Alright?”  
  
He was breathing hard by the time he finished, fed up with the constant badgering to go to a bar or agree to a blind date, all red-faced and angry. But Sam just put his hands up in surrender.  
  
“Alright, Steve. I'll leave it alone.”  
  
Steve took a breath, then another. Finally, in disbelief— “that's it?”  
  
Sam’s grin was slow and full of mischief. “Yeah, man. You're a grown ass dude, and poetic as shit. Plus I was a little afraid at the end there you were gonna punch me in the jaw.”  
  
Steve blinked—he was all wound up, looking for a threat that wasn't there—and forced himself to relax.  
  
When Bucky made it back to the table, Natasha tiptoeing behind as she tried to balance the full glasses of soda, he glanced warily between his best friend and his boyfriend.  
  
“Everything alright?”  
  
“Yeah,” Steve said. “We're all good.”  
  
And when he and Nat ran into Darcy when they were out for pizza the next time, and then the three times after that, Steve remembered his own words.  
  
It was good to talk to her, and joke, and watch the way she relaxed around his daughter. And eventually the way she unwound around him, too.  
  
It was enough.

 

* * *

 

“Steve. Stevie, you're gonna want to take this.”  
  
He could barely tear his eyes from the canvas, utterly transfixed as he added a splash of red—the exact same shade of her lips, set against the texture of her sheets, the faint glow of sunrise. He wondered if it was because he was an artist, if he was doomed to carry Darcy in his bloodstream for the rest of his life, breathing and bleeding and needing her the way he needed to paint.  
  
She'd consumed all his senses, now, to the point that he saw the essence of her in everything he made.  
  
A sharp rap of metal against the door frame pulled him away, depositing him firmly back in reality. Bucky leaned through and said his name, harsh and quick. For once his mouth was a slash of solemnity, without a curve of humor or any hint of teasing.  
  
“Steve, you need to get the phone. It's the school.”  
  
With a sharp nod, Steve moved away from the easel and reached for a grimy towel to wipe the flecks of paint from his hands. In the twenty steps it took to get from the workroom to the phone, he'd already thought of a thousand worst-case scenarios. It was too much to hope that they’d be calling him to say that Natasha was wonderfully happy at school, in perfect health.  
  
Even with his overactive imagination, though, the words that came through the speaker wouldn't settle in his brain.  
  
“I'm sorry, ma’am, what did you just say?”  
  
It was a little clearer the second time. The words _“fight”_ and _“principal’s office”_ shot through the receiver like arrows, piercing him and making it hard to breathe.  
  
The woman on the other end of the line prompted him again, short on time and temper, and he quickly muttered, “Yes. Yeah, of course. I'll be there right away.”  
  
Bucky was still hovering, and he barely waited for the phone to hit the cradle before he crowded in.  
  
“What is it? What happened?”  
  
“Uhh—” Steve raked a hand through his hair, lost and uncertain. He felt adrift, not anchored to reality. It was bizarre, like he'd stepped into an alternate dimension and couldn't tell the difference.  
  
“Damn it, Steve, is Nat alright?”  
  
“I—I need to go.” He scrubbed a hand across his face and then looked up, blinking hard against the light. Spots crowded his vision; he'd rubbed his eyes too hard. He felt more tired than he'd ever been in his life. “Nat got in a fight at school.”  
  
Whatever Bucky has been expecting him to say, it clearly wasn't that. “What? _Nat?_ Our Natasha got in a _fight_? What the hell—”  
  
“I don't know, Buck. But I've gotta get over there. Right now.”  
  
Bucky froze, then nodded his head sharply. “Right. Okay. Well, we’ll just lock up real quick and go find out what the hell happened. There's got to be a good explanation, right?”  
  
Steve blinked at him, wondering why the hell his brain wouldn't turn back on. “Lock up? What?”  
  
The look Bucky leveled on him was singularly unimpressed. “You dumbass. You didn't seriously think I was gonna let you and Nat face this alone, did you?” He looked away as Steve ducked his head, hiding the glimmer of tears that welled in his eyes. “Besides, who's gonna sweet talk her principal, if it comes to that? Lord knows it ain't gonna be you, punk.”  
  
“Jerk,” Steve rejoined weakly. Bucky clapped him on the back as they moved toward the door. “If Sam could hear that talk, you'd be a dead man.”  
  
“Nah,” his friend replied casually, flipping the sign to _closed_ and rummaging through his pockets to find the key to the shop. “He'd admire my strategy. Anything for our little princess.”  
  
Flirting, it turned out, wasn't going to cut it.  
  
“I'm afraid we have a strict no-violence policy,” the principal stated, only vaguely apologetic. “Because your adopted daughter responded to words—hurtful as they may be—with physical violence, we have no choice but to suspend her.”  
  
_“Daughter.”_ All the charm had fallen from Bucky’s face, stripped clear of anything resembling respect. The principal blinked at the change.  
  
“I'm sorry?”  
  
“She's his daughter. There's no need to add any qualifiers to the relationship.”  
  
“I-I beg your pardon,” the man stuttered. “I meant no offense.” Steve shot his friend a grateful look, wrapped up in a warning. Neither of them could afford to lose their tempers.  
  
“It's fine,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can you at least tell me why my little girl was fighting?”  
  
“Unfortunately,” the principal dithered, pretending to shuffle his papers in order but really just moving them around, “we don't know exactly what happened. All Natasha would say is that the other children were insulting her. Miss Lewis was not within earshot, apparently, and your daughter won't tell anyone the specifics. Maybe you'll have better luck.”  
  
“Alright,” Steve said with a sigh. “Time for me to collect my daughter.”  
  
Natasha was sitting in a plastic chair in the hallway, staring at her shoes. They were a soft pink with light-up heels, and Steve had bought them because they made her smile. At the moment, though, she was scowling fiercely at them.  
  
Darcy sat next to her, murmuring something too softly for him to hear. Whatever it was caused Nat to shrug, and one edge of her smile to tick up against her will. It dropped when she looked up and saw her father waiting.  
  
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, squatting down to open his arms for a hug. One thing they would never do, he and Peggy had decided a long time ago, was withhold physical affection. His daughter practically flew into his arms, hiding her face against his shoulder until he gripped her shoulders and moved her back.  
  
“Sweetheart, why don't you head out to the car with Bucky? I need to talk to Miss Lewis real quick and then I'll catch up.”  
  
Bucky reached out for her, taking her hand to lead her toward the main entrance. As they walked away Steve could hear them murmuring to each other, and not for the first time he was incredibly grateful to have such a supportive best friend. Once they were out of earshot, he turned to Darcy.  
  
Whatever he was going to say, she opened her mouth first.  
  
“I'm so sorry, Steve. I should’ve—”  
  
“What?” He sputtered, trying to catch her eye. Her gaze was firmly fixed on her lap, where her fingers twisted into the fabric of her dress. Her fingernails were painted blue—a perfect match. “No. This isn't your fault.”  
  
“I'm her teacher. It's my responsibility to make sure she's happy and safe at school and I know she's had a rough couple of years but I had no idea that she was being bullied—”  
  
To stop her babbling, he reached over to press a single finger against her wrist. “It's not your fault,” he repeated, ignoring the spark that sizzled through his veins at the simple contact. He really did have it bad, to feel static shock when they touched. When her eyes dropped to stare at the offending digit, he pulled away.  
  
She turned her head to look up at him, and he sighed.  
  
“Look, it’s really not your fault. I’ve—” He sighed again, raking a trembling hand through his hair. “I’ve seen more than my fair share of bullies, to be honest, and they’re usually pretty smart. Smart enough to make sure nothing happens in front of authority figures,” he finished, giving her a pointed look.  
  
Darcy cringed, then set her mouth in a mulish expression. “Still, I—”  
  
“This isn’t on you, Darcy.” He stared blankly toward the door his daughter and Bucky had disappeared through minutes before, lost in worries and self-recrimination, missing the startled look she shot in his direction. “You’re right, Nat’s been… well, she’s had a hard time ever since her mom died, and she had a rough childhood before she came into our lives. I know how much she cares about you—and you about her—but she’s _private_. Private, and quiet. But I’m her dad, and I didn’t have any idea there was something going on…”  
  
Closing his eyes against the burning ache in his throat and the sting of welling tears, he repeated, “I’m her dad, and I had _no idea_. What does that say, that she felt she couldn’t come to me about this?”  
  
This time it was Darcy who laid a bracing hand against his forearm. Where before he would have rejoiced at the sensation of her skin against his, now he barely felt it. His thoughts—his whole being—were wrapped up in his daughter. Natasha was his entire world, had been from the moment she came into his life, and he’d somehow missed her being _bullied_?  
  
“Steve,” Darcy said, shaking his arm a little when he didn’t respond. “Steve, listen. You’re a wonderful father, alright? I may not have always wanted to admit it,” she allowed with a self-deprecating chuckle, “but you absolutely are, and it’s been clear from day one. Maybe—maybe Natasha didn’t tell you about whatever was going on because she didn’t want it to hurt you.”  
  
His whole body tensed, vibrating with anger at the very thought, but she held up a hand to forestall his loud protest. “I know that doesn’t make it much better, Steve. My point is that Natasha loves you just as much as you love her. She’s very young, has lost her mother, and adores her father deeply. You’ve both been mourning for a long time, right? I’m not excusing it, but I can understand wanting to keep your loved ones from hurt. That’s all.”  
  
“I hate it, but you might be right,” he admitted. “It’s my job to protect _her_ , not the other way around, though. Clearly I need to make sure she knows that. I’m her _dad_. It’s my job to love and protect her.”  
  
“And no one else could do it better,” she replied with a soft smile. “Don’t forget that.”  
  
“Thanks,” he muttered, scrubbing a weary hand over his face one last time before standing. “I need to go talk to her. To remind her of all of that, I guess. And to make sure Bucky’s not spoiling her too much for fighting the good fight,” he ended with a chuckle.  
  
“Go,” she said, standing as well. “And please let me know if you need anything. The two of you, I mean. Inside, or—or outside of class, okay?”  
  
She stared at him thoughtfully as he fidgeted, not wanting to be rude but overcome with the need to be with his daughter again.  
  
“Thanks,” he said again, having heard very little of what she said. Then he paused, and met her eyes directly. “Seriously, thank you. She’s—I’m really glad you’re her teacher.”  
  
“And I’m glad she’s my student,” she responded, then offered him a bright, amused grin. “Now go!”  
  
Shooting one last grateful look in her direction, Steve headed for the doors. His brain was full of wool as he stumbled outside into the sunshine, Darcy’s words heavy on his mind and light on his heart. Her faith in him was buoying, and in the span of their conversation he’d regained the hope that perhaps he wasn’t a complete fuck-up of a father.  
  
That hope sprouted wings and took flight when he caught sight of his best friend and his daughter. Natasha’s hand was firmly tucked into Bucky’s, swinging slowly back and forth as they walked. She was staring up at her uncle, a hesitant smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. Bucky was in full mischief mode, clearly doing his best to bring a sparkle back to her eye.  
  
“—will say something different, but you forgot the number one rule in a schoolyard fight, maya milaya. Do you remember what it is?”  
  
“… don't get caught?” Natasha guessed, scrunching her nose in thought.  
  
“Right,” he affirmed, throwing her a wink and making her giggle.  
  
“I heard that,” Steve called. They turned to face him as he jogged up to them.  
  
“I meant for you to, you punk.” Turning to Natasha, Bucky mock-whispered, “You wouldn't believe the stories I could tell you about your Papa, sweetheart. I had to pull him out of fights all the time when we were kids.”  
  
“Really?” Natasha’s eyes grew comically round as she regarded her father with disbelief. _“Papa?”_  
  
“The one and only.”  
  
“Alright, Alright, that's enough.” Steve shot Bucky a quelling look as he opened the door to help Nat into her car seat. “You can hear all about my glorious fighting days when you're older. Like on your fiftieth birthday.”  
  
_“Papa!”_ Over her head, Steve shot Bucky a grateful look. His friend shook his head and clapped him on the back before heading around to the driver’s side of the car, ending the discussion for the moment.  
  
Later, once Bucky had gone home and Steve and Natasha sat facing each other across the kitchen table, he leveled his daughter with a serious look.  
  
“Talk to me.”  
  
Her lip trembled, but eventually Natasha abandoned her attempt at stoicism.  
  
“They were talking about Mama. They said awful things, Papa.”  
  
“Do you want to tell me what they said?”  
  
She shook her head, tears dropping from her eyelashes, then nodded. “Th-they s-said that… that Mama must’ve _hated_ me! That I was-was such a bad daughter that _she died to get away from me!_ ”  
  
Steve was already halfway around the table, and at her final sob he gathered her fully into his arms. “Oh, sweetheart,” he soothed, standing up from the table to carry her to her bedroom. “Your Mama loved you more than anything in the entire world.”  
  
At his words, Natasha began sobbing in earnest. Her whole body shuddered with each gasping breath, too loud and desperate for him to speak any further.  
  
Instead, he stroked her hair as best he could, pressing soft kisses to her temple. When they got to her room, he laid her in her bed, gently tugging her shoes off and sliding the pink comforter out from under her and tucking her in.  
  
She gave one last hiccuping sob and blinked up at him, exhausted and devastated. Taking her tiny hand in his, he perched next to her on the bed.  
  
“Your Mama used to call you her little miracle, do you remember that?”  
  
Natasha hesitated, then nodded.  
  
“She fell in love with you the moment she met you, we both did. You were this tiny little thing, with big eyes and these precious little fingers and toes.” He squeezed her fingers for emphasis, satisfied that he had her full attention. “And you were so serious, so quiet, but even so you brought sunshine into our lives. Like a rainbow after a big storm.”  
  
Natasha turned onto her side, curving her body around his hip. Her tears soaked into the fabric of his jeans, and he reached over to sift his fingers through her hair.  
  
“I miss her, Papa.” Her voice broke on the last word, and his heart broke with it.  
  
“I miss her too, sweetheart. I think we'll always miss her, because we love her so much. She's still with us, though. In our hearts. Okay?”  
  
She nodded, rolling onto her back and placing a hand carefully over her heart. “Yeah. I'll keep her safe, Papa.”  
  
Ignoring the tears that dripped down his own cheeks, he replied, “I know you will, Nat. And it doesn't matter what the other kids say, alright? They're wrong about your mom, and they're wrong about you.”  
  
Her face fell at the reminder. “I know…”  
  
“But you don't like bullies.”  
  
“They're _awful_ , Papa.”  
  
“I know. But they used words, and you used your fists. When is it okay to get in a fight?”  
  
“When someone attacks me or tries to hurt me,” she recited sullenly, “or when they attack someone else. It's always okay to defend others.”  
  
He decided to let her tone slide, in light of the circumstances. “That's right. Would you like to take a nap for a little while?”  
  
At her nod, he tucked her back into her covers and pressed a light kiss to her forehead. “Alright, then, get some sleep. And Nat?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Think about some things you want to do for the next couple of days. We don't want to get bored, do we?”  
  
The last thing he saw as he closed her door was his daughter’s smile, blooming above the blankets that were scrunched up beneath her chin.  
  
They were going to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know about you, but writing (and editing, and then re-reading) this made me tear up a little. hope you enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments make the world go 'round. ❤️❤️❤️


End file.
